Resident Evil: The Collection
by Escape the Shadows
Summary: A fanfic made up of individual short stories all set in the Resident Evil universe. Third story up, Game of Fate. Two men trapped in a cellar by the undead, with one bullet between them, put their lives in the hands of fate through a simple game of chance
1. Ten Bullets

**Summary: A man tries to survive the horrors of an Umbrella lab. The only problem is, he only has ten bullets left in his gun. Can he survive? Or is he doomed to become one of the living dead?

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_A/N: Before you start reading this, I'd like to say something. This fic is nothing more than a short story, or more typically referred to as a one-shot. I had written just a tiny portion of this fic a couple weeks ago, but the idea wouldn't leave my mind, so I wrote it all out. This is the result. It is my particular hope that I will add more chapters to this fic, but none of them will deal with the characters or scenario in this part. The main idea is to put together a collection of one-shots (or short stories, if you prefer.) that all deal with the Resident Evil universe together into one massive fic. It is my hope that each of these stories may bring something new to the table, and I will definitely be experimenting with my writing style a lot more in these short stories. So please, sit back, relax, and enjoy my story (or stories). Don't forget to leave a review. I'm always anxious to hear what people think and ways I can improve._

_One last thing (just a small disclaimer), I hope I don't have to point out that I don't own Resident Evil or any of its characters/ creations. Nor do I own any other brand names I use. I'm just a humble man with a computer._

_So here it is, the first story of what I hope will be many..._

**Ten Bullets…**

He lay on the fleeting edge of consciousness. His ass was planted on the ground and his body was leaning weakly against a wall. Opposite from him, right in his field of vision, was a metal door. It was electronically opened, meaning it should slide open when someone pressed the button, but it was going to do no more sliding. David had made sure of that.

To the left of the door, at about waist level, was a keypad. It was covered in blood, _David's_ blood.

_My blood,_ he thought with sad humor. He gave a small, desolate chuckle, but it soon turned into a ragged cough that shook his whole body with spasms.

He wore a dirty, blood stained lab coat. Emblazoned on the left breast was the insignia of his company, of his destroyer. There was a wound in his left shoulder, deep and certainly life threatening. Glistening bone and wet muscles exposed themselves in the crater of his shoulder, and there was plenty of blood to go with it. It dripped down his whole arm and formed a puddle on the floor. It was in his unkempt hair as well, a result from him anxiously putting his hands through his hair.

The door began to shake, and he could hear the moans that came from the other side of that sheet of metal. How long would it hold them? He didn't know, nor did he care. His time was almost up, and there was nothing he could do. The room he had locked himself in had only one entry point. When the door guarding that way in came down, he would be dead. No doubt about that. That only brought him back to the original question: how long would it hold them?

"Not long enough," he spat out harshly. His voice was weak and cracked. He wished for a drink of water. He didn't like sounding like this. It made him realize just how weak and vulnerable he was, made him realize how human he was. He had spent nearly fifteen years thinking he was better than being human somehow. Fifteen years of thinking he was better than everyone else.

How wrong he had been.

He thought of the ironic justice and began laughing again, oblivious of the pounding at the door. His mind began to drift towards unconsciousness, but he managed to pull himself back. He couldn't allow himself to fall asleep a time like this. It would be suicide.

Yet his mind did drift. It moved to a place that seemed like a dream inside a dream, and his mind flooded with images of the past. Everything that had happened lately came back to him, and David found himself reliving the nightmare.

Ten bullets…that was all that was left. He had spent a whole fucking six hours in this nightmare, and this is what it all came down to: ten bullets and hundreds of undead and B.O.W.S. In a sense of all words, David was screwed.

He ran through the hallway, knowing what was behind him, but not daring to look back. He had to keep his eyes forward. His eyes on the prize, so to speak. The hallway ended abruptly and he turned left quickly. His loafer clad feet slipped out from underneath him as he tried to make the prompt turn and he went rolling across the floor and into the wall.

All the wind in his body was knocked out and stars danced across his field of vision, seeming to taunt him in his distress. He moaned softly in pain, and another answered him. This moan was empty, loud, and close.

He opened his eyes groggily. At first, he saw nothing but swirls of color and movement, but moments later his vision refocused. What he saw was a woman wearing the same lab coat as himself, but she was in a much worse state than he. Her right arm hung loosely to her side, covered in blood. It was only held to her shoulder by a thin, grisly strand of flesh.

"Karen?" He asked in a weak voice. He recognized her easily, just as he recognized a lot of his assailants.

Yes, it was her. He could tell by the curly, black hair and that necklace she always wore, the one with that large green stone set in the middle. This was Karen, the same woman who he had seen around the labs, the same woman who had eaten lunch with him on more than a few occasions. Except, that woman was no longer here. He knew that from those ashen, listless eyes. The Karen of old had been replaced by this mockery of her human nature, the one with the empty eyes.

He rolled to his side as fast as his weakened body could manage and stood up. She was close now, close enough he could see the individual specks of blood that stained her coat. He lifted the handgun in his hand and pointed it at her impassive face.

"It's what you would have wanted," he whispered quietly to himself as he pulled the trigger. Karen's body gave a quick jolt then fell to the ground. The arm, which had hung so loosely before, fell off from the impact, making a wet _splat _noise as it connected with the white tile.

At that sound, David's stomach turned in on itself, and the result was almost instantaneous. There was another wet _splat _as his stomach's contents fell to the ground in a steaming pile. He wiped his mouth off and managed a look back at the stark hallway behind him. He saw no one, but he knew they were getting closer. Their perseverance was unmatched and they would probably chase him through the whole facility. Oh well, as long as he stayed ahead of them, he had nothing to worry about.

Shadows danced across the hallway for a moment, the shadows of people shuffling slowly. _No, they're not people, _he thought. _Not anymore. _That was when he decided to take his leave, moving forward, listening to the moans behind him.

_Nine bullets, _he reminded himself. _Nine more bullets._

He tried to move faster, but that fall had taken more out of him than he had thought. One of his ankles now seemed swollen, sprained no doubt. He went as fast as he could, limping slightly on his damaged joint. It only hurt a little, and later (there would be a later as far as David was concerned) he would ice it and it would be just fine. He would just have to be more careful next time. Next time, he might not get off with a sprained ankle.

Ahead of him, screams echoed off the empty hallway. They were horrible screams filled with pain and torture. It sounded like whoever was screaming was having their soul ripped from their chest. With everything that he had seen today, David could believe it.

He passed a door, and he briefly looked into it, wishing he hadn't. In this room was the source of all the screams. He saw a man pinned on one of the counters; the beakers that had been on it previously lay shattered on the ground. A bald man and a younger woman held him down and feasted on his open stomach, stuffing his entrails greedily into their mouths. The man screamed in pain and agony, and he kicked his feet in an effort to free himself. It was useless. He screamed in more pain as one of the zombies ripped out a long, gore drenched organ that from a distance looked like a rubber hose. David could see the tears on the poor man's face.

"HELP ME!" the man yelled hysterically, kicking his feet wildly and buckling in an effort to free himself. David only set his eyes to the floor, not wanting to see the look of despair in that poor man's eyes as he walked past the open doorway. He would have liked to help him by putting two bullets in his attackers than one extra in the poor man's head, just to end his pain, but he didn't have the resources to do such an act. He only had…

…_Nine bullets. Nine little bullets. _The words repeated themselves in his head, forming a mantra. The chant managed to block out the forsaken man's screams.

"NOOO!" the man yelled, but David didn't hear him. He was far too busy humming his little tune, trying to separate his mind from the horrors it was actually experiencing.

It didn't take long for the screams to end. David thought he heard some thick, choking sobs before they stopped, but he wasn't for sure. What he was sure of though was that Mr. Screamer was no more.

_But he'll be back,_ David thought. _Even death isn't enough to stop this damn virus._

He turned the corner, and came across one of the BOWS, the Hunter 121 MA, also known as the Alpha. David knew from his research that the creature's normally preferred to stay together in packs, so where were the rest of them? At this point in time, he didn't care. All that mattered was there was a creature that never should have been that wanted to eat him alive.

It stared at him with its reptilian eyes, and David stared back. His eyes absorbed every detail of the creature's being— the shimmering scales, the blood soaked teeth, and even the thick claws that dripped dark droplets of crimson to the floor. In this white hallway, the creature looked as if it had spawned from the very depths of Hell itself. But David knew better. Hadn't he been one of the lead researchers on such a creature? A carpenter should be able to recognize his own handiwork.

He had no idea how long both of them stared at each other, but eventually the creature leapt into the air, descending down upon him with its sharp claws. He lifted the gun up and fired, counting the bullets as he did so. _One, two, three, four, five, six._ The creature shrieked with fury and pain before falling limp. The body of the demon fell to the ground in a heap, spraying blood in thick streams onto the walls and floor. Bullet holes riddled its chest and some had even managed to damage its face.

He stopped, despite the panic filled voice in his head that was screaming at him to keep moving. He looked down at the creature he had just slain with a mixture of fear and wonder.

_I'm responsible for this, _he thought with realization. _This is what I was working on the whole time. Creating monsters for money. Nice trade-off. It's my fault this baleful monster exists in the first place. I should have never played God. Never._

He thought about all the sleepless nights he had spent trying to make a creature like this. Had he really spent such time creating such a diabolical thing? It was hard to remember, but he thought the answer was yes. Yes, he had created this abomination.

Anger swelled in the pit of his stomach. How could he have been so stupid? He gave the corpse a swift kick in the chest before walking over it, proceeding on his journey.

He had a mission to complete, and one Hunter wouldn't stop him. His goal was simple: get outside of the facility and warn everyone topside about the evils of Umbrella. It was a noble cause, one he should have pursued earlier, but he had been blinded by greed and power then. He had never realized how evil all of the creations were, how truly demented and sinister. Before, he had seen them as only one thing: money. That was wrong, and he didn't know what was more evil and sinister, the creations or the creator.

He looked down to the gun in his right hand.

_Three bullets,_ he said to himself.

Things were starting to seem much more dismal. Three bullets, and he still hadn't even gotten to the main floor of the complex. Hope was passing him like a delicate, beautiful butterfly and he didn't have the net to catch it.

Still, he went on. What else was he supposed to do?

"Three bullets. Three bullets left," David sang in a singsong voice. "Three bullets. Three bullets left." His voice echoed off the walls in the desolate halls.

Ahead of him, a door was shaking in its hinges. No doubt from a captive carrier seeking freedom. He had no choice but to move past it. The moans behind him were getting closer and there was no other hallway to take.

The door shook, letting loose a loud _BANG_! every time it reverberated off its hinges.

_Please hold on,_ he urged the door. _Don't let that thing out until I pass it. Please. Please!_

He was closer now, much closer. The door still hadn't broken down. The _BANGS_! got louder and louder with every step he took. He was almost to it now. He was close enough to smell the zombie inside the room. It was hard to mistake that God-forsaken scent for anything but the living dead.

_This is it,_ he thought as he approached it. _Now or never._ He moved past it, trying to put as much distance between him and the door as he possibly could. Unfortunately, it was to no use. The door exploded open from the force behind it, and coming out of the room was what David had known was there all along: a zombie. It grabbed hold of him and sunk its teeth deep within his shoulder.

He screamed in pain and tried to throw the zombie off of him, but he was too weak and the zombie was far too strong. Damned research, making these things stronger than they ever should have been. His only choice was to bring his gun up to the creature's head and pull the trigger. Blood and gore sprayed across his face as the creature's head exploded like a rotten melon. Its grubby hands still gripped his shoulders, and with a disgusted grimace, he threw them off.

_Two bullets. Two bullets left._

This abhorred truth seemed to speak to him from every angle of the hallway. It was like a great booming voice coming down from Heaven, reminding him of his failure, reminding him he had only two bullets left, and that he was infected. He was as good as dead.

Yes, he was as good as dead; he was infected. His arm hung loosely down to the ground, and he supported it with his other hand. Trying to fight the pain and hysteria, he walked down the hall slowly. If he could have seen himself he would have remarked the alarming similarities between him and one that had already succumbed to the sickness of the virus.

_It's over now,_ he thought with tears stinging his eyes. _I'm infected, and I'll turn. There's no denying that._

Behind him, the moans grew louder. The carriers were getting closer now, and they would only get closer. David had been injured and now they would catch up to him.

He turned a corner and came to a dead end. Nowhere left to go but one door. He approached it and pressed the button to open it. It slid open with a slight _whoosh _and he walked into it without hesitation. The door slid shut behind him, and he punched in the lockdown code with trembling fingers. His clumsy, bloody fingers messed up the code on two occasions, but he managed to calm himself down enough to punch it in on the third time.

"Third time's the charm," he whispered softly. And in truth, it was. Fists had begun slamming into the metal as soon as the correct code had been entered.

He heard another moan behind him, but it didn't startle him. Nothing could scare him now. He had nothing to lose now. All hope had been lost, leaving David empty and alone.

The zombie reached for him with its snow colored hands, but fell to the ground after a bullet entered its brain. Before the corpse could touch the ground, he was walking across the room on legs that felt like water. It almost felt like he wasn't walking, but rather swimming. Yes, he was swimming, just like he loved to do every summer at the lake when he was a kid. Thoughts of the cool water and the sun reflecting playfully of its surface managed to bring a smile to his face. The memory was a spark of light that illuminated this hell, making everything seem all right, making the pain he felt a distant memory. He collapsed against the wall and closed his eyes in an effort at peace.

David's eyes snapped open, snapping him out of his trance. Had he fallen asleep? He didn't think so, but he had no way of knowing. Reality had been bent in so many ways in the past ten minutes (or was it more like an hour?). Much like the way a child would mold silly putty, bending and contorting it till it fit their purpose. He couldn't even remember what he had been thinking of, but the image of water came to his mind.

Strange, somehow it was reassuring.

He looked down to his right at the handgun that was still clenched in his white hands.

"One bullet. One bullet left," he sang quietly, voice cracking with the effort.

He picked it up and felt its weight. It was heavier than he remembered, but its steel touch provided some comfort, provided an answer.

The pounding on the door grew louder, and he could see that the door's body was bent and twisted— _like child's silly putty— _from the abuse it was taking. Wouldn't be long now.

_But you can speed things up, _he thought.

Wasn't that the only way? He didn't have long before he would turn— he knew that. He had all the symptoms— deep itch in the infected area, dizziness, and worst of all, extreme hunger. In no time he would be like the others he had shut out of the room. He would be a zombie. In his mind, there was no other alternative. If he were to die, he would die in his own damn way! He would die as a human.

He raised the handgun to his temple, feeling its touch against his temple.

_This isn't so bad,_ he thought optimistically. _It's like holding the hand of your lover. It's like hugging your father when you're a child. It's comfort. It's knowing that everything is going to be okay._

"One bullet," he sang in a whisper. "One bullet left."

For the second time, his mind traveled to another place, to another when. However, it wasn't the hell he had just been experiencing; this thought was much more peaceful, much more relaxing.

He was a kid again, and he was wearing his bright blue swimming trunks. He was running down a hill, a hill full of flowers. There were beautiful violet flowers and pure white flowers that he didn't know the names of, but it didn't matter. He was young and they were beautiful. That was all that was important. He passed the flowers, smelling their sweet aroma, nearly tasting it. He laughed joyfully as he looked down to the water's surface, bright and shimmering. The water looked cool, pleasant and inviting, but it was always like that. After all, it was summer and he was young.

He was young again.

He came to a dock, just painted over in a stunning white. He looked down to the water, waiting to plunge into the water and feel its cool touch on his sweat-drenched skin. He would jump on ten.

(He would pull the trigger on ten.)

"One…"David spoke slowly, his inner child echoing his voice with its childlike innocence. "Two…three…four…five…six…seven…eight…nine…"

The older David's finger tensed around the trigger and the child took a deep breath.

"Ten."

Then they were gone, plunged into the refreshing blue waters.


	2. Letter From the Damned

**Summary: A man's sanity is tested after he is infected by the T-Virus. Recorded here are his last moments, in his own writing.

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_A/N: Thanks goes out to all those who read my last story. From the reviews, people seemed to enjoy it, which makes me all the more glad. Finally, another idea struck me quick as a lightning bolt, and so I have written it out. It's a little different from anything else I've written, being that it is in first-person. I'm very anxious to hear what you have to say about this story for (as I stated before) it is the first fic I have actually written in first-person. So please, if any of you know some pointers for helping me write in this style, don't hesitate to give me any. I'm always ready to improve upon my writing._

_That said, enjoy the second story of my collection…_

**Letter From the Damned**

Oh God! Oh, God! I don't know exactly how long I've got— could be a few hours, could only be a manner of minutes. I knew this was wrong! I knew we shouldn't have done anything like this! Now look what it's gone and done! We're all screwed. Every single last one of us. Oh, God!

We should have seen this coming. We were just begging for it the whole time. Secret experiments, viral testing, creating those damn demons. All of that and no one honestly thought this could happen? It's karma. Pure and simple consequence for our transgressions against the world.

Now look what's happened! Everyone here is infected! They have to be. It was an airborne leak. Deadly stuff. Too deadly. I don't know what to do! I'm starting to lose control of myself! Look! Even as I write, my hands shake with fear. As they should. I'm as good as dead. D-E-A-D, Dead!

I have to get control of myself. Maybe I should count to ten! Ha!

Alright, I'm sorry about that. I lost control of myself, but I'm fine now. Had myself a little cry I did. That and those depressant pills really helped. I feel like in my right state of mind. A little stoned too, but that hardly makes a difference. The important thing is I'm finally calm enough to write. Calm, yeah, calm.

I feel like I have to write all of this down. Someone has to. When the alarm went off declaring that there had been a T-spill, the first thing I did was lock myself in my office. Seemed like a good idea at the time. While I'm here I have to find something to keep my mind occupied, or I fear I may go crazy. That said, I'm going to write. I will probably end up writing until the very end.

The only problem: I'm not sure what to write. I guess I can start by describing my surroundings. Like I said, I'm in my office. I'm sitting behind a nice mahogany desk. There's a laptop on it, but I'm not going to write on it. It's far too unreliable— you never know when the power could go out.

The room is fairly large. Much larger than a cubicle. It is lit up nicely by a chandelier. You know, nothing's too nice or too expensive for an Umbrella scientist! On the sidewall is an aquarium. Nice fish of all different sorts of colors are swimming in it. As I write, a tiny blue striped fish is swimming through the pirate ship I've set in it for them. They look so peaceful in there, completely oblivious of the fact that they're infected. Everything and everyone is infected. I wish I could be like them; knowing that I'll turn is worse. I keep expecting it, yet I have no idea what it will come to take me.

Alright, enough jibber-jabber about my office. Now that I think about it, for someone to read this note they'll have to be in the office anyway. Ha, I can't believe I didn't think of that before! Must be my anxiety, or maybe the drugs.

I guess you deserve to know what's going on here. To keep things short and simple: the lab I've been working in has been developing a virus as a biological weapon. We call it the T-Virus, and it changes someone into a rotting, walking cadaver. In other words, a zombie. Yes, that's right a zombie. Though I'm sure if you reading this you must have seen a few of them by now.

Perhaps, I should explain why this is, and why we were developing such a virus. Yes, I've got some explaining to do— or as my Grandpa might say (God rest his soul), "You ain't making any sense. Speak English, boy!" Actually, in truth I have no idea why we were developing such a crazy concoction. Now, the idea seems ludicrous and insane. Though nearly everyone here is insane. If they aren't already they certainly will be when the virus has taken its effect.

First, I must speak of the vile company I work for. They are known throughout the entire world. They call themselves the Umbrella Corporation. Yes, you may think I'm insane, but I assure you it's the truth. The public thinks that we specialize in medicine and other products, but it's all a hoax. That's part of the reason I'm writing this, to expose the evil that Umbrella is.

Like I said, the masses think that Umbrella is helping people, but in reality it's destroying them. In truth, the majority of research is devoted to biological and chemical weapons. Right now, we have been studying a virus we fashioned in regards to the Ebola virus that's plaguing Africa. We had originally wanted to use the Ebola virus as a weapon, but it proved to be too unreliable. It was far to hard for it to spread and it could be quarantined too easy. Now that I realize it, we were begging for this to happen the whole time. We didn't want it be quarantined? We wanted it to spread faster? It's like I said before, we were insane.

Then again, you have to be insane or sadistic to do this for a living. It's practically a job requirement— right next to greed and lust for power.

Where was I? Oh yeah, Ebola virus. When the virus didn't work like we planned on, we made some alterations to it. You can't quote me on it, but I'm fairly certain it was Dr. Marcus, along with a couple of brilliant young scientists who fused the virus with leech DNA. If memory serves me correct, the two young scientists (Dr. Birkin and Dr. Wesker I believe their names were) took claim of the virus as their own making, officially calling it the T-Virus, short for Tyrant-Virus. Though, there is reason to suspect that Dr. Marcus was the creator of the virus. It is my belief that both Birkin and Wesker assassinated Marcus and claimed his research. It wouldn't surprise me the least bit if they did. Umbrella is full of treachery, and it's all too easy to hear tales of researchers stabbing each other in the back. That goes back to greed and lust for power, the curse of all Umbrella employees.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not putting myself on a pedestal here, saying I'm better than them, that I have morals, that I'm not as corrupt as them. No, don't misquote me there. I accept full-responsibility for what has occurred, and I agree. I too was full of greed and lust. However, I've reached a turnaround. Heh, hard not to when one faces their own mortality.

However, I was not always like that. In fact, that was hardly the case when I first entered this company. I was fresh out of college— Harvard if you believe it. I had been studying to become a biochemist. You know, maybe end up teaching it as a professor when I became wiser in years and grayer of hair. However, when applying for a job, it didn't take me long to find the Umbrella Company. They were everywhere, the largest pharmaceutical company in the world. I showed them my credentials and they were thoroughly impressed. How could they not be? I passed all my classes with the highest of marks— a feat I was quite proud of, and apparently they were too. They promised me a great salary, one I would never dream of after just completing college, and I was practically hired on the spot.

Now, I could say the money was cause for my motivation, but that would be a lie. In truth, the thought that had been going through my mind was much more along the lines of power. No, it was acceptance. Yeah, that's it. I had graduated college with high marks, and they recognized that. They actually _wanted _me! I guess that was why I joined: the need to feel wanted.

You see, all my life I had been living in the shadow of my older brother. He was the firstborn and I was just the second son. He always got higher grades then me, and he did it with the greatest of ease while I managed to get decent grades (A's and B's). He was athletic too, a regular gift from God. My parents, both brilliant doctors saw this and knew he would continue their brilliant legacy. Meanwhile, I had above-average intelligence, yet it mattered nothing when compared to Andrew's (my brother) intelligence.

However, my break would come soon. In hindsight, I guess I can contribute all my success to Andrew (even if that bastard doesn't deserve it!). Without me living in his shadow, I never would have been propelled to work as hard as I did. I might have just blown through life without a care in the world, became a teacher or something of that sort, but when one doesn't get credit for the work they do they can choose to accept it and lay down or work harder and do better.

I chose the second.

I never made a good athlete, yet I tried. While Andrew had basketball and football, track was my thing. I managed to do decently in it, yet it wasn't enough. So, I turned to books. I studied harder than I ever had before, and before I knew it (or my parents for that matter) I had rose to the top of my classes. My teachers were amazed, yet I wished my parents showed their enthusiasm. Still, it was not enough.

It wasn't until I accepted by Harvard that my parent's showed some interest. I still remember their exact words. "Looks like we have _two _brilliant sons!" Never had I felt such joy! I had received praise! I hadn't exactly beaten Andrew, but I was put back at his level. That was something. That was an achievement.

That brings it all back to my original point: I joined Umbrella because of acceptance. It was a way to beat my brother, a way to shove it in his face and show I accomplished something he never did.

Sorry, I'm guess I'm getting a little off-track, and I can't afford to be doing that at a time like this. It's just that my mind is beginning to ramble, and I'm just writing down what I think. Though, it must stop; every second is crucial. Thank God I'm writing this with a pen and not a pencil. Otherwise I'd run out of time from simply sharpening the damn thing!

Back to Umbrella's evil. Not only did we develop that virus, we did more. So much more. We used the virus to make vile beings, creatures that defied God. One of the more successful of these beings was called the MA-121, or the Hunters. We created these by introducing the T-Virus into a subject through gene therapy and adding in some reptilian DNA. The results are horrendous (but fantastic by Umbrella's standards). I can't even begin to describe these demons, but I'll try. That is, after all, what I'm writing this for. Most of them stand at about a normal man's height, but they slouch, giving the appearance they are smaller than they actually are. They have been most commonly described as a "skinless gorilla," and that description pretty much matches it. Only, it does have skin, think green scales. You can't forget the claws and teeth though. Both of these dangerous weapons are strong enough to tear through even sheets of metal. A ferocious creature indeed.

Oh no! As of now I can hear those damned things outside in the halls, hunting down the others that are still out there. It's impossible to misplace their hellish screams. Oh God! It's awful! So many screams! And they're so loud too! God! It's awful!

I really don't think I have much time left now. An itch has spread through out my body. Even while I write, one hand writes and the other is scratching. I know I shouldn't be doing it, but it's so damn hard to stop myself! The itch! Damn the itch! My skin has started to peel away from the scratching too. The areas I've been scratching have turned a puffy red. Definitely infected, no use trying to deny that now.

The itch isn't the only thing happening. My head is pounding. It feels like its being stampeded on by a circus full of elephants. Kinda makes it hard to think. Even harder to write.

God! I can't take it anymore! My head is going to explode! God! Please! Make it end!

Alright, I just downed almost a whole handful of aspirin. If that doesn't stop the headache, nothing will.

Having trouble thinking. Where was I? Yes, I remember now.

Besides the Hunters, we created many more vile things. We created skinless humans with tongues longer than their actual bodies, appropriately dubbed Lickers. Then there are the Chimeras. Not exactly sure how we made these demons, but they look suspiciously like a mix between a human and a fly. Perhaps they were created in much the same way as the Hunters?

Of course, it is impossible to forget the big daddy of them all, the Tyrant.

Part of Umbrella's dream was creating the greatest weapon, so they could sell it to the highest bidder. That dream was partly realized with the creation of the Tyrant. As it turns out, when injected with the T-Virus, one in ten million people will be affected differently. They will transform into the Tyrant. It is a walking tank, an abhorred creation with little intelligence. Its strength is unparalleled and it is resilient to damn near every weapon except high-powered explosives. A team of Umbrella scientists in Paris has managed a way to perfect its design. I haven't heard much about it, but the term being used is simply called "Nemesis."

Now that is a beast to be feared. It stands at over nine feet tall they say. Some intelligence is retained, allowing it to use weapons and adapt to situations. It is said to be nearly invincible— weapons have no effect on it and explosions only manage to knock it out! Not only is it strong, it is agile too! They say it is able to outrun a human and that it can jump several stories high. I pity whoever comes across that behemoth.

Oh, wow! I just looked at the time. Have I really spent just about an hour writing this down! How time flies when you're busy. Hopefully I have longer. I have no idea how long it will take for me to fully succumb to the virus's effects. It's different for each person depending on the metabolism, size, and other attributes of the host. I can only hope my body lasts just a little longer.

Already some of the others have turned. I can here them out in the halls, moaning and shuffling. They're lost souls. Bodies with no one inside them. Vessels without a captain, so to speak.

I can hear gunshots too. That doesn't surprise me at all. Nearly all of the researchers are paranoid enough to carry their own gun on them or in their office. After all, you never know when an outbreak like this can occur. Just a leak and the airborne effects can infect nearly the entire facility. Yeah, we made it spread faster all right. Too damn fast, if you ask me.

Still having trouble thinking, but it's getting better. Not much, just a little.

Well, at least I managed to reach my goal. See! I can do anything when I apply myself! Take that Andrew! I'll be damned if you could write five hundred words before turning! That's right! I beat you! I beat you!

Sorry, this virus is starting to hit me all at once. I feel dizzy and delirious. Things can only get crazier from here.

I'm starting to get hungry too. I never really planned on having to survive in my office, so supplies are low. I have a mini-fridge, but the only contents in it are a sandwich and a cup of fruit salad. Already, I have destroyed both of those, yet my stomach still isn't satisfied. Strange too, I've never been a big eater. Normally, I'd be lucky to eat half the sandwich and couple spoonfuls of the fruit salad. Must be a symptom of the virus.

I can't believe this is the last moments of my life. Trapped miles underground in a facility full of walking dead. Guess it isn't going to matter when I turn into one.

I thought about killing myself, but can't do it. Part of it is that I literally don't have the tools to accomplish such a feat, and even if I did, I'm not sure I could go through with it. I'm too much of a coward. Guess there's no shortage of cowards in Umbrella either! Ha! Ha!

The screams have stopped. I also managed to calm myself down with more of that drug. It's starting to affect my mind deeply. I bet if I lived through this I would end up being addicted to it, but I don't have to worry about that, huh? Ha! It's kinda funny really.

Still hungry. So hungry! I feel like I'm starving, withering away. I can't let myself go out like that. I need to find something to eat!

I could eat…No! It's wrong! I can't even finish that sentence out of fear. How could I eat them! They've never done anything to me. Besides, they are so peaceful. Look at them, swimming in their tank without a care in the world. No, I could never eat them. It's sick and wrong. I must keep my mind off my stomach. I must keep writing.

What to write about? What to write about? I haven't the faintest clue.

I am writing. I am writing. I am writing. I am writing. I am writing. I am writing. I am writing. I am writing. See, I'm keeping myself busy. Mustn't let myself think about anything.

One…two…tie my shoe. Three…four…shut the door. Five six…pick up sticks. Seven…eight…lay them straight. Nine…ten…a big fat hen! God! What I wouldn't give for a big fat hen right now! Actually, I'd settle for a big greasy bucket of fried chicken, but I can't have it! Why does my mind tempt me with these delusions!

If I can't have chicken, I'll have fish! Nice, delicious fish!

No! Can't let myself fall for that! I don't need to eat. I don't need to eat. I don't need to eat. I just have to keep reminding myself of that one and simple fact.

I don't need to eat. I don't need to eat. I don't need to eat. I don't need to eat.

FUCK IT! I NEED TO EAT!

Still hungry. Not even all the fish in my tank could fill me up. That's right, I ate them all. I stood above the tank, drooling (at least I think I drooled, everything was a blur), and when one would pass below me my hands would move with uncanny speed. Snatch! I caught on of the blue-striped ones! Crunch! I'd bite into it, bones and all. I didn't care. I was too hungry to care. I ate them all like that. Every single last one. Wait, not all of them I bit into. Others I just let slid down my throat if they were small enough. They're probably still swimming inside me! What a thought!

When the ones at the bottom wouldn't come up (clever bastards figured me out!) I'd put in some fish food. Ha! That got them to come up! It was a brilliant trap, and they couldn't see through it! Not so clever now are you fish!

Am I going crazy? I just reread over what I wrote and they appear to be excerpts from a madman's memoir. Maybe something from Dr. Jekyll. Or was it Mr. Hyde? I can't remember which one was the crazy one. Maybe they were both insane? Yes, I bet that's it. Now that I think about, Dr. Jekyll (and Mr. Hyde, of course) has a lot in common with my employers. Both were tampering with a potion they ought not have. All in the name of science.

The name of science.

I wonder how many unlawful and inhuman experiments have taken place in the name of science. In fact, I remember reading about some POWs in WWII that were put through all different types of tortures. All of it was an experiment to see what the human body could handle. God-awful stuff. I only read through a quarter of the stuff before getting sick and tossing it in the fire. All of that was done in the name of science. In the name of science!

Fuck science! That's what I say! Science did this to me. So fuck science!

I wonder where Andrew is right now? No doubt excelling in anything he's doing. Bastard!

More gunshots. Just a few. Screaming too. I think everything's gone to hell already. Still, I'm safe in this office.

Safe and sound.

That is, until I change myself.

I've run out of things to say. Never thought I'd actually do that. In truth, I really did think I'd turn in the middle of my speech uncovering Umbrella's evil. It would just be another way to cover their tracks. They're crafty. I wouldn't put it past them to make me turn into a zombie faster than everyone else so that I couldn't expose them. However, they failed! They failed! And now it's all recorded here for future generations to behold! I'll be a hero! I'll be the one to have exposed Umbrella's evil all at the cost of my own life! There'll be parades in my owner! Parades!

Silence now. Or, actually, as close to silence as one can hope for. There are no more screams. No more gunshots either for that matter. Just silence, shuffling feet, and the occasional moan. I still haven't been discovered. A couple of times moans have come from right outside the door, along with the shuffling foot steps. Every time that happened my hand would freeze (that is the writing hand, my other hand is always moving, always scratching). I would hold my breath until they passed, and every time I would go unnoticed. Lucky for me. I don't want to be torn apart by those hellish things. No sir!

Disgusting! A clump of skin actually fell off. I was just scratching away without a care in the world, and it fell off. It made a disgusting plop on the desk, actually getting this page and a few others speckled with blood. Hmm…I wonder what I taste like? Maybe I could find out…

No! I mustn't let myself fall for this. I have to rise above the virus. Have to fight it. Can't give up. Can't.

Still, I'm hungry. No, _starving_! Yeah, that's it, I'm starving. I already ate all the fish. I already ate the sandwich. There's nothing left. Nothing but myself.

I wonder, is it cannibalism if you eat yourself? Technically, you aren't eating another person. Now that's a funny thought. A person who eats human flesh but isn't a cannibal. I wonder, would I be the first? Certainly, I couldn't be. At some point in time, someone must have found themselves in a situation like mine. They would certainly wonder what they tasted like. The only question is, did they act upon their urges? Or would I be the first?

I guess I could perform an experiment of sorts. If I had some seasonings I can test out what I taste like with them. Would I taste better with ketchup or mustard? Maybe grape jelly? I've always been a sucker for grape jelly. Ah! So many choices. Yes, I could do an experiment. All in the name of science. Ha! Science!

In the name of science!

Sorry about that. I just spent the last few minutes laughing my ass off. I really think Im going crazy. This has to be the end. I only wish god would speed things up. Im destroying myself.

Still, that piece of flesh haunts me. I picked it up and hurled it across the room so it wouldn't distract me anymore. I mean, I couldnt keep my eyes of it. If my penmenship ever gets shotty you'l know its from me keeping my eyes locked on it.

Even after I through it, my mind woudn't leave it alone. God! I even licked my fingers clean from the blood. It was delecius! So tasty! Now I cant get that taste out of my moth. Its there and I want more.

Has to be something to keep myself distractd. Has to be. Writen didn't work, maybe exersise? That's it. I'll do jumpen jacks. Five hundred of em if I have to.

I did it. I'm ashamed, but I did it. I could't keep my eyes of it. Got tired from my exersise so I stopped. I shouldnt have stopped. I should've kept going til my heart blew up in my chest. You have to undrstan, I didnt want it. i never wanted it, but its tasted so good! It pracktikaly slid down my throat! nice and slimy.

god! now i do want to kill myself. Maybe that will stop i from doing this. It will stop the damn itch for sure. For sure.

Another piece of skin came off. ate tht to. after that. I peel of more skin just to satesfie my hungr.

Never really been religius. who has time for it when the'yre trying to beet there brother in evrything? Not me. not me.

this has got to beit. i can feeel it. feel it inside cant right anymore.

got to go

so hungry so itchy so

i hav to go now hungry need food got a find it

bye

* * *

_Please, I'm anxious to here what you have to say. I've never done something like this and I'd appreciate any pointers if you have any. If not, still don't forget to tell me your thoughts. I mean, you managed to get all the way down to this, why not just take a few seconds to review and tell me what you think. It won't hurt, I swear. See you around next time._


	3. Game of Fate

**Summary: Two life-long friends trapped in an underground cellar. With one bullet between both of them, they decide to leave their fates up to luck and a simple game of chance. **

* * *

**Game of Fate**

Only one bullet remained, one Goddamn bullet.

The handgun sat still on the grimy, dust-covered box between the two of them. Mark looked up at Chris' soiled, bloodstained face; Chris returned the woeful gaze. Studying his friend's appearance, Mark noticed that the plain white dress shirt Chris wore had been torn into ragged strips, barely managing to cling to his sweat-drenched skin. Usually stark and clean in appearance, the cloth had been fouled by blood and gore, shading his shirt a dark, wine red crimson. The dark, fatigued circles under his eyes were the embodiment of his weariness and desperation.

_Don't be so quick to judge, _Mark thought with dark humor. _It's not like you look much better._

That, in fact, was a truth he found impossible to deny. Then again, the more he thought about it, the more he wondered: who could look good after fighting the living dead and other horrid abominations for nearly twenty-four hours? Mark _wouldn't _want to meet the guy that came out of that smelling like a rose.

"So– " Chris began, breaking the unearthly silence that hung around them like a noose.

"– Who gets the final bullet?" Mark finished with a dry, humorless smile.

Chris smiled back too, despite their current situation. Suddenly, Chris uttered a small chuckle that turned into a uproarious laugh with both men joining in. When the spontaneous hilarity drew to a close, Mark uttered one last chuckle before facing his life-long friend with a serious look.

"This matter is– "

"– Serious?" Chris interrupted again, looking up at his friend with raised eyebrows.

"I was going to say, 'crucial,' but serious works just fine."

"Yeah," Chris sighed deeply. Mark didn't like that sigh. He found it far too pitiful and desperate as if it wasn't just a sigh, but the man's final breath. In a lot of ways, that was true, and that was the fact that got under Mark's skin like a sharp needle. "I guess you're right. I mean, listen to that."

Chris turned his head, looking back at a solid wooden door. At times, the entrance (and exit too) would be still. Others, it shook violently, banging and rattling like a man trapped in chains. The door would be pushed out then _slam_! back shut when it met the iron bar Chris had set across it not a moment after they had shut themselves in the dank cellar that had become their new prison.

_Tomb is more like it, _Mark thought glumly.

Chris sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Just wished there were two bullets so we wouldn't have to fight over it."

"Yeah," Mark sighed, looking down at the ground made of cold, hard cement "I'm not fond of the idea either, but we owe it to ourselves to let someone go peacefully."

"Yeah," Chris agreed, nodding his head solemnly.

"Yeah…"

"So that takes us back to the original question, who's it gonna be?" Chris' eyes locked fiercely with Mark's, and all he could only stare back in return.

"We could leave it to luck," Mark suggested slowly.

Chris raised his eyebrows curiously. "What do you mean?"

"Up for a little Russian Roulette?" Mark said sardonically, reaching out slowly to grab the gun from the table. _Has it always been this heavy? _Mark wondered. Holding it in his hand, it had indeed seemed to gain more weight. Almost like the situation itself had increased the gravity. Taking a deep breath, he spun the chambers. "Do you want to go first, or should I?"

Chris stared at the gun, not saying a word. His eyes didn't move; he didn't even blink. Finally, he spoke in a low whisper, barely audible over the thumps and bumps coming from the blocked door. "Are you sure you want to do this?"

_Am I sure? That's a good question._

"No, not really," he answered. "But I don't see any other way to do this. We just have to trust luck to make the decision for us."

"Alright. Let me go first though."

Mark handed over the gun without objection. Even with the heavy gun transferred to Chris' hands, he still felt a great weight in his hands. Without even thinking about it, he shook his hand and rubbed it anxiously on his pants to rid himself of that sensation.

Chris pulled the hammer back, prepping the first chamber. Whether the bullet was in there or not was about to be determined. The gun shook in Chris' hands slightly as he rested the barrel on his temple.

Mark's vision zoomed in on his friend's face. The noise made from the zombies attempting to get in faded like a volume knob turned down slowly until it had been completely muted. Only one thing mattered to him, the odds of the round being in that chamber.

_One out of six,_ Mark thought. _Sixteen percent chance._

"Try not to puke if I make a mess," Chris said dryly with his lips pressed into a fraught smile and his finger resting on the iron trigger. There was no humor on Mark's lips; he didn't laugh, only nodded. With that done, Chris pulled the trigger.

_Click!_

A sound so small, so reserved normally, suddenly echoed loudly through the small cramped cellar. Mark could have sworn his ears were ringing from it. Chris looked down to the gun and passed it hesitantly to Mark who looked down at it. He thought about spinning it again but changed his mind. They could be here longer than needed if they kept spinning it every time it didn't fire. After all, that would always make it a sixteen percent chance of going off. If they didn't spin it, they would eventually that mythical, wonderful, one-hundred-percent-mark.

_One out of five. Twenty percent._

He felt the icy touch of the metal against his forehead. It felt exactly like he imagined death to feel like, cold and final. Still, he had always imagined it to feel horrific, but that was not the case. Quite the contrary. He felt relieved, almost as if the gun promised everything would be alright. It gave him a way out, a way to escape the horrible reality he now lived.

_Your getting ahead of yourself_, a voice reminded. _It's only a twenty percent chance. This may not exactly be the end._

Mark pulled the trigger, closing his eyes as he did so.

_Click!_

He sighed, not out of joy, but out of regret. He had been so ready to let it all go, but it was not his time. Not now at least.

_One out of four. Twenty-five percent._

The odds were now starting to look a little better for Chris. Any serious gambler would tell you that a one in four shot was better than could be hoped for. Chris knew this and didn't hesitate in putting the gun to his head and pulling the trigger.

_Click!_

Mark absentmindedly wiped the sweat from his brow. His turn again. He picked up the gun, and it's weight seemed to increase. With every pull of the trigger the gun became heavier. It made no sense, but there was no denying it.

_One out of three. Thirty-three percent._

This had to be it. The two of them had already expended half the bullets. The mere fact that it hadn't gone off yet was a miracle. Closing his eyes, he saw black. Though, he tried to envision something else, something beyond. Heaven. Hell. Limbo. Anything besides just the empty darkness.

He pulled.

As his finger tensed, his life flashed before him in the blink of an eye. Everything came so fast, but so clear, ripping apart the shadows of his mind. He saw everything.

He was five years old again, just moving into a new neighborhood. He saw a small child with blond hair, watching him with a basketball in his arm. They had played Horse, and Mark had won. Then, they were twelve, on their bikes, racing through the streets. Chris won that time. Many more of these competitions flashed before him: who could get a dance for homecoming first, who could eat more at the buffet, who could run a mile the fastest. He saw so much and so quick, but it was all ended when he heard:

_Click!_

He had been wrong. Mark couldn't believe it. Everything had felt so final there; he had seen his life pass before his eyes. He had been so sure. Feeling numb all over, he handed the gun over. Chris took it, looking him in the eyes. Mark stared back, but didn't see.

"Mark, are you alright?" Chris asked, genuine concern floating with his voice.

"I saw everything," Mark answered with a whisper. "My whole life, all of it, just like that!" He snapped his fingers for extra emphasis. "I can't really describe it. It's like coming face to face with the Grim Reaper himself, fully expecting him to shake your hand and end it all, but instead, he just gives you a casual nod and moves right on by."

Chris nodded, looking down to the gun in his hand. "Do you think it'll happen to me when I pull the trigger this time?"

Mark slowly shook his head. "I honestly don't know. I never expected it to hit me like that…right then. Feels like I was hit from behind by a truck. Never saw it coming."

Chris gulped, resting the gun against his head. "I guess here goes nothing." Mark watched with wholehearted interest, his mind unaware that there were only two bullets left (fifty percent odds). Chris closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. He took a deep breath, letting his chest expand, and breathed out as he pulled the trigger.

_Click!_

Mark's eyes grew wide with surprise— the bullet was in the last chamber. Chris' eyes grew wide too as he passed the gun to Mark. He picked it up, still not believing any of it. There was no longer any room for failure. The chances of the gun going off were one in one, one-hundred percent.

"I guess this means I win," Mark said, not knowing what else to say.

"Yeah," Chris said, dumbly.

Mark swallowed hard, feeling the great lump in his throat.

The trigger tensed; Chris' eyes widened. Mark stopped when he saw that. Insanity and terror filled Chris' eyes. Mark knew what his best friend planned on doing before Chris probably knew it himself.

The moldy crate Chris had been sitting on during the game flipped to the ground as Chris dove over the grimy box separating the two. Mark panicked. He tried firing the gun before his friend could reach him, earning him the victory he so justly deserved. However, Chris stopped him.

The gun did not go off.

Mark felt himself fall as Chris' weight came down on top of him. He felt both of Chris' hands wrap violently around the gun. As he connected with the hard floor and his friend's weight landed on top of him, the wind left his lungs, leaving his gasping for breath.

"Give it to me!" Chris seethed, prying desperately. "You cheated somehow! I know you did! You fucking cheating bastard!"

Mark didn't let up so easily. He held on strong, and in desperation, Chris did the one thing he could think of, he bit Mark's hand, bit it hard.

"Shit!" Mark cursed, having no choice but to release the gun. It fell with a clatter, and Chris smiled at the sound. He reached for the weapon eagerly, crawling on all fours like a dog, a desperate dog without a master.

Maybe it was his competitive nature or maybe it was some sort of animalistic instinct, but Mark decided he could not let Chris have the gun, no matter what.

With a cry, Mark reared his left hand (the one Chris hadn't bit) and rolled over, using his momentum to send a punch straight at Chris' face. He didn't know exactly where the blow landed, but he placed it somewhere around his friend's left eye. Regardless, he had enough power to knock his friend off his balance. With Chris down, Mark took the moment to grab the gun for himself.

He rose to his knees, but that was as far as he got before Chris lashed back out, putting his shoulder into Mark's stomach. Chris' weight pinned him to the ground. His attacker forgot about the gun for a moment, lashing out with his fists.

Mark's head rocked back and forth as the fists connected with his cheeks. The metallic taste of blood, Mark could taste it. He put brought up his arms to protect himself, absorbing the blows. Suddenly he felt a rage boil inside him.

_Chris actually attacked me, all for the gun— the gun which I won fair and square._

Rage gave him determination, determination gave him strength, the strength to grab his friend's arms by the wrists. Chris seemed surprise, and he pulled back, trying to free himself. Mark grinned with dirty satisfaction when he saw the look of shock on Chris' face. He pulled down with both of his arms, pulling Chris close as he swung his head at his adversary's face. Both of their heads met with a loud _thump!_ Mark felt something cut his forehead and he knew what it was: one of Chris' teeth.

The blow left Chris wide open for another attack. With the best leverage he could muster from his pinned position, Mark swung his left hand. Chris' nose seemed to explode under contact, blood flew into the air. Chris rolled over in pain, allowing Mark to stand on his feet.

"Is this what you wanted?" Mark yelled at his friend's crouched form. "Is this the kind of game you had in mind? A boxing match? Why couldn't you just let me enjoy what I won? It was fair and square! If you would have won, do you think I would have tackled you? Well, I got something to tell you! If this is how you want to win the gun, good luck, cause there's no way in hell you're beating me!"

Chris snarled, climbing to his feet. Using the sleeve of his tattered white shirt, he wiped the blood from his mouth and nose. It didn't help much; a steady flow of blood rolled down his face like a waterfall. "That's what you think, Mark. I've always been able to kick your ass, and you know it."

"Could have fooled me now," Mark taunted, gesturing to the blood flowing down Chris' chin.

Chris said nothing, just brought his fists up in front of his face. Mark entered his own stance, making sure to stay light on his feet. They moved in on each other, sizing each other up.

No bell rang to signal the start of the fight, yet they both knew exactly when to start. Mark made the first move, swinging with his weak right hand. He didn't expect it to do any damage. On the contrary, he expected it to draw Chris' defenses. It succeeded. Chris brought up his arms as a shield to absorb the blow, leaving his stomach open. Mark used the advantage, sending a brutal uppercut with his left fist into Chris' soft stomach.

Chris fired back quickly, lashing out with his right fist. Mark felt pain erupt in his left eye, but he didn't falter. He swung back with the right, connecting with one of Chris' ribs. He followed with another punch to the jaw with his left. The ol' one, two combo.

Chris staggered back, rubbing his jaw with one hand. "You son of!" He didn't finish his sentence, just charged and jumped into the air. Mark realized what was coming just a second too late. Chris planted his foot on Mark's chest, knocking him to the ground and stealing the wind in his breath.

Mark lay on the ground, wheezing deeply in an attempt to regain his breath. Chris didn't give him any time to recover.

In the fetal position, Mark did his best to defend himself as Chris kicked him in the ribs, punted him in the side, and stomped on his form. As he did so, he added insult to injury, sending down curses like fire and brimstone.

Mark decided enough was enough and grabbed Chris' foot as it came down. Chris grunted and swung his foot to free himself, but Mark refused to let go. He yanked hard; Chris fell back down to the floor, resulting in an even footing. Mark slammed him in the gut with his elbow quickly before crawling away, towards the gun, towards victory.

"No…" Chris muttered behind him quietly. He crawled after Mark, refusing to lay down and lose.

The gun grew closer, and Mark licked his lips in anticipation. His hand wrapped around the worn, wooden handle. This was it; he had the gun; he had won; and Chris had lost.

He pointed it towards his temple, smiling victoriously.

_Take that Chris, _Mark thought triumphantly. _I win one last time._

He pulled the trigger.

_BOOM!!_

The sound echoed throughout the small chamber. Mark's ears erupted, filling the air with a high-pitched shriek. He kept his eyes closed, thinking to himself, _is this what death is like? I feel no different. I felt no pain. I felt nothing._ Then slowly it dawned on him. _Why did I hear the gun go off and feel nothing?_

He opened his eyes, to see Chris staring at him, his face a mixture of triumph and horror. Mark looked down to the gun still in his hand, trying to replay the events in his head.

"What happened? Why am I still here?"

"I knocked the gun away right as you fired," Chris said solemnly. "Didn't you feel it?"

Mark shook his head, tears swelling in his eyes. "No, not at all. I was too focused."

The moans at the door, the thumps at the door, never sounded any louder than they did right now. They were like the ticks and clicks of the hands of a clock, counting down the last seconds.

Mark leaned against the wall, looking at the ceiling, staring at the bullet hole. Chris slid next to him.

"No bullets left, huh?"

"Nope."

Silence.

"Sorry about that, Mark. You won. You deserved that as much as anyone."

"Too late for that now. We're both in the same boat."

"Yeah, I guess we are."

The wood of the door began to split, and Mark realized it wouldn't take that long.

"Chris?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm kind of glad it ended like this."

"Really?"

"Yeah, we've gone this far together, and I think it's only fit we end it together."

"You know? I think you might be right."

Mark put his arm around Chris' shoulders and the two of them sat there together, waiting for the door to break down, waiting for the end.


End file.
